A Lesson Well Learned
by Tears of Telperion
Summary: Maedhros makes a gift for his father - chaos ensues. Cute fluff.


It had to perfect.  
  
A small, red-haired little figure was hunched over a low table, quill in hand, ink beside him, and a piece of parchment in front of him. Maedhros gritted his teeth, adding something on the picture in the special red ink in last place.  
  
There. /Now/ it was perfect.  
  
The young son of Fëanor grinned triumphantly, holding up the piece of artwork in front of him. He had been working on this for days. And now he was finally happy with it. He jumped up, coincidently knocking over the small bottle of black ink onto the wood. Maedhros winced slightly, mumbling a quick 'oops', but otherwise left it the way it was. At least it wasn't the /special/ ink. His mother had told him to be careful with it, for the King Finwë had bid Fëanor take it along on the way back to visit his father, when he found out that his first grandson had a liking for art.  
  
For although in other tales it is told that it was not Nelyafinwë to have had the appreciation for arts and the like out of the seven sons of Fire, he did indeed like such things when he was a child.  
  
With a squeal, all thoughts about the ink forgotten, he rushed into his mother's sewing room. "Mama! Where is father?!" Nerdanel glanced up and chuckled at her son's giddy and excited face. She knew he had been working on – something, but she was not sure what.  
  
"He is in his workshop, Maitimo." replied Nerdanel. "What is it you have there, clenched behind your back?" the Elfling blinked, shuffling slightly. "It is for father. You told me to make him something."  
  
"That was quite some time ago!"  
  
"Yes," he said in a rushed and defensive tone. "But I have not until now had an inspination."  
  
"Inspiration." she smiled, telling that he was a bit flustered from being kept from his task. "Very well then. Go and give him your gift – and tell him to be up by final meal."  
  
Maedhros nodded, bounding off to where his father would be.  
  
---  
  
Meanwhile, Fëanor was carving at something, a look of rare frustration upon his fair and usually indifferent face. When the sound of someone knocking at the door disrupted him, the Elf muttered something under his breath, sighing deeply. If it was someone just come to ask him for a piece of jewelry and such to be made, he knew very well that his infamous temper would be flared.  
  
"Come in." Fëanor called at last, his voice sharp yet rather toneless, as it usually was. As the tiny frame of his son came slinking in, his aggravated mood turned up quite a bit. There were few people he enjoyed the company of in this world, and Maedhros was one of them.  
  
The boy glanced over at him, hoping he hadn't interrupted anything. "I hope I am not disturbing you, father." His only response was Fëanor coming over and placing a small kiss on his head.  
  
"Nay, Maitimo. You know you are welcome here at most times." He arched a dark brow when he noticed the rolled up paper in Maedhros' hands. "What is this?"  
  
"It is – for you." Fëanor gave a slight smile, taking it gently. His gaze, as it always did, studied it for a long while, noting the prettily tied bow that held it secure. Nerdanel had done it for him, perhaps. As if reading the prince's thoughts, Maedhros piped up again. "I did that!" He pointed at the brownish colored ribbon. That had taken along time to practice as well!  
  
Finwë's son kneeled down and his smile only grew bigger. "Aye, and you did a fine job!" he praised before finally unrolling it. The Elf blinked. He wasn't... completely sure of what it was a picture of at all. Obviously, though, Fëanor had enough sense not to ask what they were, and so took it upon himself to figure it out. There were black – things... perhaps the two blobs were Telperion and Laurelin... But not until he noticed the red on the small blob-figure in front did he realize it was indeed meant to be himself and his son. His heart filled with pride and love for Maedhros, and didn't know what to say at first, but said something soon enough. "It is- very nice."  
  
Maedhros glanced up, biting back a pout. Nice?! It was just /nice/? He had hunched over the bloody thing for three days just for it to be nice?  
  
Ah, how he was at times his father's son completely.  
  
Fëanor blinked – again – struck dumb at why his son could possibly be pouting. But then he realized: if someone just called his beautiful work 'nice', they would've received a tirade to end all others! Twitching at his lapse of intelligence, he looked back down at Maedhros. "Mmm... No, I am wrong."  
  
Now this genuinely startled the boy, and his eyes went so wide, they seemed far too large for his face. First, he thought that his father had seen the pout, and now was going to take even the small compliment back. But secondly, and more astonishingly, Maedhros had never in his life heard Fëanor admit to being wrong. As much as he loved him, he knew that his father had a very large ego, and an equal amount of pride. So this was quite a shock to him.  
  
"Indeed, I am wrong. It is far more than nice, Russandol, it is very, very beautiful. I shall treasure it." Now, one must remember that he rarely lied; and this was one time when he didn't need to just to keep from hurting his son's feelings. It really was beautiful, to him, and he would treasure it.  
  
Maedhros grinned from ear to ear, throw his arms around his neck tightly. "Do you really, papa?" Often Fëanor got irritated when someone asked such a question – but the giddiness in the Elfling's eyes made him glad.  
  
Nodding, the elder Elf smiled and picked Maedhros up as he launched himself into his arms. "Aye, I do. Now... would you like to see what I am making for your mother?"  
  
He mumbled a quick 'yes', and noticed his father set down the picture on a table as they passed, adorned by shining and beautiful jewels that were set about the wood. He smiled to himself, proud to see his piece of art amongst such fine things.  
  
"This, Maitimo," Maedhros turned his head as his father began speaking, looking at what he was holding. The piece of jewelry was stunning indeed; the chain was wrought in a glimmering silver, and seemed to be studded with tiny, sparkling gems that could not be seen unless up close. Even the clasp was set with a white little stone. But what made the little boy's eyes widen, was the stone set upon the chain. A bright green stone that was in the shape of a slightly flattened sphere made him think of the green grass that adorned the earth all around his lovely home. And yet – at certain angles, as the fire from the forge glinted off it - shades of deep blues flickered in its center.  
  
"Oh! It – so beautiful!" Fëanor looked less than pleased though, and took little comfort from his son's compliment. Impressing a child wasn't so hard to do.  
  
The Elf shrugged. "Yes, well... it is not perfect." he quirked up an eyebrow as the boy started to laugh. A faux anger passed over his face. "You mock the son of the king?" Maitimo grinned cheekily.  
  
"No! But- that's what I was thinking when I was drawing the picture." He studied it for several more moments, rubbing at his chin as if there was a beard there, and Fëanor suppressed a smirk. "I think that maybe it's the wrong shape." A curious brow rose. "Maybe it should be a heart shape. I think mother would like that. 'Cause... she liked that pretty head piece that you gave her." Fëanor blinked one more, feeling rather silly... again. Was he losing his wits? He had given Nerdanel that certain piece scarcely three days before their wedding, and it had a white stone that he had molded into the shape of a heart set on it. Indeed, she had very pleased with it. And now that that Curufinwë looked upon the stone, he began nodding. His son would be a dear help someday.  
  
Maedhros waited patiently for his father's opinion. He knew without a doubt that there would be one. Perhaps the idea was foolish? Oh... could he not do anything right? "Hmm. I think you are right, Nelyafinwë." A breath of relief left his lungs. "And I think that perhaps I will do it- well, later, I suppose. Your mother shan't be happy if I am late for her dinner again." Fëanor winked as his son, and set him down; yet the slight breeze that it caused sent Maedhros' picture drifting into the fire that his father had been working in just moments ago. The child's eyes widened – as did Fëanor's.  
  
"Your present!" he squealed, about to run forward to retrieve until strong arms prevented any such movement.  
  
"Maitimo, no picture, nor jewel nor cause is a good enough reason to get hurt. I should think you would not like to get burned."  
  
"But that one... it was... special..." Maedhros pouted, tears filling up in his grey eyes. Fëanor mumbled something to himself, glaring at the flame. He crossed the large room, and went shuffling through some things on a shelf. A book fell on his head, which earned a very audible curse and a giggle from his son. Now glaring at the leather-bound script, he continued searching until he found what he was looking for. Whatever it was, it was small enough for him to hold in his hand fully.  
  
And as -this- gift was presented to Maedhros, his jaw dropped. "Ink!" the child shrieked. "Green ink! Oh – but – where did you get that!?" Never had he seen GREEN ink before! After all, green was his favourite color.  
  
Fëanor's eyes were smiling brightly. "King Finwë gave it me the same time he gave me the red ink. Both were for you, but I was holding onto this one for a special occasion. I suppose, though, this shall do quite well. Here you are, my son."  
  
All thoughts of that crummy old picture abandoned Maitimo's mind and he did a little dance in the moment. "I now I may draw you something better! Thank you. Eeeeh!" So he went skipping up to show his mother, stopping only for a moment.  
  
"Mama said that she wanted you at final meal."  
  
"Indeed, I know, my son."  
  
The one named the Fire Spirit watched him bound upstairs, and chuckled despite himself. Not since before his father's second marriage had he been in such high spirits. And what's more, is that Fëanor learned a very valuable lesson that day about himself, that he would carry with him until his dying breath amongst shadow and flame:  
  
Even he, Fëanáro, greatest of the Noldor, could not resist the pouting face of his son.  
  
---  
  
Maitimo – Maedhros' mother-name.  
  
Nelyafinwë – Maedhros' father-name.  
  
Russandol – Maedhros' nickname.  
  
Curufinwë – Fëanor's father-name.  
  
---  
  
Since Elves and Men age the same until they are about three years of age, I'm placing Maedhros at four, though he would still look... younger. oO; I don't care if that made no sense.  
  
---  
  
I revised a little. xX There were a few typos and whatnot that were bugging me. I often get caught up in writing and think little of grammar and spelling. You'll have to forgive me on that because it's just the way I am. ;;;  
  
Anyway. oo I'm working on a sequel-like thing to this. I guess it's not really a sequel. It has the same light-hearted theme, nly this time it features Maglor as well. We love chibi musicians, don't we? Yes. Yes we do. 


End file.
